“Really? Fantastic.” Damn James and his cheerful attitude.
“I, uh,” I cleared my throat, shaking my head, “it’s … I shouldn’t …”
Gregory’s eyebrows pulled in, and I watched him take a careful breath. “Nonsense, Savannah. Come on up.”
Not wanting to make a further bumbling spectacle of myself, I took my own measured breath, stood somewhat shakily, and made my way to the other seat.
“Do you mind if I stand? It sounds better when I stand,” I whispered.
“By all means.” He gestured awkwardly with his hand.
I couldn’t believe I was about to do this. I wasn’t nervous about the notes—I’d mastered those months ago. I wasn’t concerned with the other members watching me play—I’d played solos for most of them at one time or another during my years as a student here.
It was him.
Any time he played, either in the classroom or with the BSO, I was rendered speechless. He commanded my full physical attention with each note he drew from his strings. When he played, it was like it was the only time I was granted access inside his head. It was fascinating, and frightening, and heartbreaking. So much so that I often held my breath as he played, paralyzed by the sheer beauty of the music swallowing every negative assumption I had of him. Now, I was expected to play with him. God, I was about to play with Gregory Fitzgerald.
Shake it off. You’ve played in front of him before.
Once I adjusted my stand, I looked down at him and gave a nervous smile. His eyes smiled back, and he nodded once before starting the piece. He had twelve notes before I had to enter, and I spent all of them watching the way his body moved behind the cello.
Gregory
As always, Savannah’s posture was perfect, back straight, her feet spread hip width apart. For perhaps a fraction of a second she met my eyes, and I jerked my eyes away, down to the level of her hips. Then I set the bow to the strings, mentally preparing myself for the first notes. I knew this piece well, though it was an unusual one for me.
Unusual because two months before, I’d walked by the practice rooms late in the evening at the conservatory. I’d heard her playing before I saw the door to one of the practice rooms cracked, just enough to let the music out. She’d been practicing it.
I recognized the notes, of course, but it wasn’t one I’d played before. A flute-cello duet. Later that evening I’d gone home and practiced until the music became part of me.
Now, she adjusted her music stand then looked at me with a quick smile, quickly gone. I nodded, encouraging her. Despite myself, I found myself take in a sharp breath as she raised the flute to her lips.
Six notes, repeated twice, from the cello. Two measures, rising arpeggios, slightly dissonant, and as I played them she took a breath, her back straightening, arms riding slightly in the air, and then she began to play the melody as I continued the bass rhythm underneath. I’d played this part through a hundred times by now and knew it as intimately as any music I’d ever played. So, while I did not divert attention from my own playing ... I watched her, making slight adjustments to match her volume and pitch—which was impeccable—as she began to play the fanciful, almost playful melody.
To my surprise, I found that the longer we played together, the less I had to think about it. It became effortless. I knew this music by heart, and it seemed she did too, and her eyes moved as she played, focusing on me, then away, then back. They were liquid, huge, and as her body swayed slightly forward during a particularly difficult run, I caught my breath because it was as if she was speaking to me in a private language only we knew. The room had somehow narrowed, only the two of us, and the music between us.
I don’t think I’d realized before just how beautiful Savannah Marshall was. It’s not that I’d never noticed her … I’d observed her dirty blonde hair which she usually left free and wild, her large brown eyes, the dimples that sometimes appeared on her cheeks when she smiled. Her free and loud laugh when she found something amusing. The curve of her hips, which swayed as she walked, the swell of her breasts. I’d seen all of these things. And felt a tiny scar on her bottom lip as my tongue swept slowly across it.
I’d also seen her mind: quick witted, incredibly intelligent, opinionated, talented, brilliant. Her talent, her intellect, surpassed that of the vast majority of students or adults I’d known, and it was breathtakingly attractive.
And then, there was the music. The beautiful sound of her flute drifting down the hall of the practice rooms was commonplace in the quiet moments of my mind. Even three years ago during her audition she’d shown poise, talent and practiced skill that surpassed virtually all of her peers.
But here? Sitting across from her in the semicircle of our peers on the faculty, our eyes occasionally met, softening, bridging the distance of what had been a tempestuous relationship. Here, the tendrils of music emanated from us both for the first time, winding like a braid, the threads tightening together, faster, more in sync, beautifully wound up into something much bigger than the separate cello and flute parts that each of us played alone.